by Gail Oust
“Chandler Jameson Prescott!” I nearly shouted. “Don’t you dare sneak up on me that way ever again!”
Now that my heart rate had returned to near normal, I noticed he’d dressed for the occasion in a navy blue tracksuit that looked more suitable for sipping wine in front of a roaring fire at a ski resort than for zipping down side streets of small-town USA.
Casey sniffed CJ’s thick-soled, name-brand, and obviously expensive running shoes and began to lift a hind leg.
“Don’t even think about it, you mangy mutt,” CJ snarled.
“Don’t you insult my dog!” I shot back. Casey, unused to being reprimanded so harshly, backed off and relieved himself in a clump of weeds.
Resting my palms against the rough brick of the building, I performed a few simple, gentle stretches to limber up muscles in my calves and thighs. “Okay, CJ, why are you masquerading as an athlete?”
“What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?” CJ asked, instantly on the defensive. “Accordin’ to Amber, this is Nordstrom’s finest in men’s sportswear.”
I pointed at his red, white, and blue striped headband. It looked like something the front man in a rock group might wear. “The headband Amber’s idea, too?”
CJ mimicked my warm-up routine. “Amber thinks I need to work out. Wants me in tip-top shape for the nuptials. Lindsey mentioned you’d started joggin’. Thought you might give me a few pointers.”
“It’s best to start at a brisk walk,” I said, my warm-ups over. “Try to keep up.” I headed for the street, Casey at my side.
CJ matched his stride to mine. “No problem. You’re forgettin’ I used to play sports. Football, baseball, tennis.”
“From the paunch you’re developing, I’d say the only exercise you get these days is punching the buttons of the remote control.”
“Amber’s turnin’ into a regular slave driver. She’s after me to skip the prime rib and order salad. I didn’t spend years eatin’ tuna casserole and meat loaf so I can deny myself a good piece of meat now I can afford it.”
“Poor baby,” I said, picking up the pace.
CJ, not about to be outdone, followed my example. “Amber’s talkin’ about me signin’ up for a Pilates class at the club. She’s thinkin’ about hirin’ a personal trainer.”
Why, oh why, had I fallen for CJ’s sob story during our divorce? He’d convinced me that we were strapped for cash with Chad’s plans for medical school and Lindsey’s upcoming college expenses. Like an idiot, I’d believed him. I took him at his word and agreed to a cash settlement. All of which I’d invested in Spice It Up! Owning a business of my own had been a long-held dream. Now, while I struggled to make ends meet, CJ lived in relative luxury. But to quote a cliché, money can’t buy happiness True happiness, I’d learned, came from within. I felt good about the woman I’d become, confident and proud of my accomplishments.
I broke into a jog. “A personal trainer, eh? Must be nice.”
CJ gamely kept up with me. “Amber met this guy by the name of Troy at the drivin’ range the other day. He claimed to be a personal trainer visitin’ here from California with a friend. Amber invited him over for dinner and drinks tomorrow night—and a free consultation.”
Alarm bells sounded in my head. A visitor from California? Were Troy-at-the-driving-range and Cheryl Balboa’s surfer dude one and the same? McBride wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe in coincidence. I hadn’t figured out the particulars, but I planned to be an uninvited guest for CJ’s “free consultation.”
“Can you slow down a bit?” CJ whined. “I’m not trainin’ for a marathon.”
“Fine.” I obliged. “Now, are you ready to tell me the real reason you showed up at my back door this morning?”
“I’m worried about Momma,” he confessed. “How was she after you got ’er home last night?”
“Frankly, I’ve never seen her more upset,” I admitted. “She kept complaining about the fingerprinting ink. Must’ve washed her hands a dozen times. Made me think of Lady Macbeth: ‘Out, damned spot.’”
“Didn’t know you knew any, ah, ah,” he panted, “Shakespeare.”
“There’s probably a lot about me you don’t know.” I turned down a side street and once again lengthened my stride. Casting a sidelong glance at CJ, I frowned. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Just dandy,” he puffed. “Give me a second.”
I was in the zone and felt I could run forever. I even had breath in my lungs enough to speak. “If all you wanted to do was break a sweat, you could’ve stayed home and used your treadmill.”
“You’re a hard woman, Piper Prescott. A hard woman.” He chugged to a halt.
I jogged in place next to him. “Want me to call nine-one-one?” I inquired sweetly.
He shot me an angry look, then bent forward, hands on his knees, while he caught his breath. Casey stared at him curiously, with his head canted.
Eventually, CJ straightened and swiped the perspiration from his upper lip. “I’m damn near killin’ myself, all because I need a favor from you.”
“Ask away.”
“Momma’s got herself in a fine pickle. McBride’s a regular pit bull. He’s not gonna let go until he finds out why Chip Whatshisname showed up deader ’n’ a skunk in her cellar.”
As much as I would’ve liked to, I couldn’t fault his logic. “So what’s the big favor?”
“Momma needs your help. Hell’s bells, I need your help. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Piper, when it comes to figurin’ things out. I want you to do everythin’ in your power to find out what really happened.”
Does he think he has to ask me to help Melly? If so, ours was a sorry state of affairs. Rather than jogging in place, I kept raising my feet—first right, then left—to keep the muscles from seizing. “I’m already trying to get to the bottom of this, CJ, but I’m not a detective. McBride’s the one with all the experience. Maybe he’s the one you should be having this conversation with.”
“McBride doesn’t know Momma the way we do. We both know she didn’t push that man down the stairs—but, sure as shootin’, someone did. Think how easy it would be for the police to take things as they appear on the surface. To never dig any deeper. Promise you’ll help sort things out. If not for me, do it for our children. Surely you don’t want Chad and Lindsey to have to visit their meemaw in prison.”
It occurred to me that this was the longest—and the most civil—conversation CJ and I’d had in a coon’s age. “I give you my word, CJ,” I said. “I’ll do everything I can to find out what really happened that night.”
Satisfied with my response, he nodded. I watched as he turned and hobbled back the way we’d come.
* * *
After returning home, I fed Casey, showered, and made egg-white omelets with tomatoes, mushrooms, and Swiss cheese for Melly and myself. I kept the seasoning simple, with kosher salt and a pinch of ground white pepper. Slices of whole wheat toast completed the menu.
When breakfast was over, I went downstairs to my shop and spent the morning fielding questions from those neighbors who’d heard Melly’s home had been searched. Talk gradually drifted to the Grangers’ Oktoberfest party, which was to take place in just a few days. Pinky Alexander mentioned her husband, Del, served in Germany while in the army. He’d once sent her a pretty velvet vest embroidered with wildflowers that she thought would be appropriate to wear if paired with one of her square dance skirts. Lottie Smith, on the other hand, said she wouldn’t be caught dead in some ridiculous outfit. Happily for me, most people left with spice of one sort or another. Cloves and cardamom seemed to be leading the pack, with cinnamon not far behind. Someone—it might have been Ruby Phillips—confided she used cardamom to give her meatballs their unique flavor.
The morning’s discussion of German recipes and the various spices used prompted me to give more serious consideration to what I was going to take to the party. Lebkuchen, I decided with finality, a spice cookie and one of Chad’s favorites. Si
nce business had slowed, I went to the small kitchen at the rear of my shop and started assembling and measuring ingredients. The dough needed to be thoroughly chilled before rolling out and baking. I’d make the dough today, then refrigerate it overnight.
I was stirring dark molasses into a mixture of egg, brown sugar, and honey when a woman with curly blond hair and hoop earrings the size of bangle bracelets shoved open the door. “Why do you suppose McBride took Melly’s Visine?” she asked.
“Reba Mae, you meet up with Lady Clairol again?” By now I should have been used to my BFF’s constantly changing hair color, but the transformations always came as a mild surprise.
Preening, she patted her curls. “This time the blond hair’s the real deal. Thought the change of color would help me get into character for Truvy Jones. Play practice for Steel Magnolias begins next week. Like it?”
I tipped my head from side to side, studying the difference. Black hair one day, blond the next. Both were a vast improvement, however, over the magenta she’d favored for a while. “It’ll take a little getting used to, but since it’s for the sake of art…”
“You didn’t answer my question: Why did McBride take Melly’s Visine? He lookin’ to find DNA?”
I sighed. “How would DNA get inside a bottle of eyedrops?”
Reba Mae shrugged. “Just askin’, is all. I’m no CSI. No need to get testy.”
“Sorry.” I added flour and spices to the batter. “I’ve got the feeling we’re sitting on a time bomb about to explode.”
Reba Mae rested her hip against the edge of my worktable. “I’m puttin’ my money on the wife. I bet Cheryl and the boyfriend did it. Speakin’ of boyfriends, have you seen him around lately?”
Slivered almonds and candied fruit peel went into the mix. “Funny you should mention him. He sounds like Troy, the guy Amber met at the driving range. He’s supposedly a personal trainer, so Amber invited him over for dinner and drinks tomorrow—to advise CJ how to get into shape.”
“He’d have to be a hypnotist in order to get CJ away from Kentucky bourbon and red meat.” Reba Mae picked up a food zine I subscribed to and flipped through the pages. “Wonder if Cheryl and the dude are still hookin’ up at the Beaver Dam Motel?”
“Maybe we should do another drive-by. Check things out and see if we can spot her car in the motel lot,” I said as I wrapped the cookie dough in plastic wrap first, then aluminum foil before sticking it in the fridge “I’m not busy tonight—are you?”
Reba Mae brightened. “Nope. I’ll bring the snacks. Stakeouts and drive-bys always work up an appetite.”
“Great. Pick you up soon as it gets dark.”
We were debating whether cheese dip was considered a serving of protein when Doug Winters walked into Spice It Up!
“Hey, stranger.” I smiled and wiped the flour from my hands. The sight of him lifted my spirits. I realized I hadn’t heard from him in days, which was unusual. I rationalized that Melly’s predicament was the reason behind our lack of communication.
“Hey, yourself.” Doug’s usual easygoing smile was absent, his tone frosty.
Reba Mae, sensing the chill in the air, decided to beat a hasty retreat. “Guess I’d best be goin’, honeybun. Nice seein’ you, Doug.”
Traitor, I mouthed. It would have been nice to have Reba Mae as insulation against Doug’s unexpected coldness. “Anything wrong?” I asked the instant we were alone.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets. “I could ask the same of you.”
Something was definitely off. Doug usually greeted me with a hug, often a kiss. Smoothing my apron, I ran through a mental checklist, but other than worries about Melly, I couldn’t find any transgressions.
Doug made a big production of looking over my shoulder. “Melly around? There’s a favor I need to ask.”
“Sure thing,” I replied. This seemed to be ask-a-favor day. I walked to the foot of the stairs and called Melly’s name.
“I’ll be down as soon as my soup comes to a boil,” Melly called back.
Awkwardness stretched between us like a wad of Double Bubble. Doug rocked back on his heels and looked at everything in the shop except me.
“What did you want to see Melly about?” I finally asked, braving the silence.
“I was going to ask her to bake a batch of gingersnaps for me to use in the sauerbraten I’m bringing to the Oktoberfest. Gingersnaps thicken the sauce that goes over the meat. They give sauerbraten its distinctive flavor.”
“I’m sure Melly’d be happy to do that for you. Besides, it’ll help keep her mind off her trouble. Doug,” I said hesitantly, “if there’s a problem, you know you can always talk to me about it.”
He met my eyes for the first time since entering. “I thought the problem might be on your end.”
My mind flashed back to the pizza I’d shared with McBride the other night. That was followed immediately by a pang of guilt. I reminded myself I had no reason to feel guilty. I had no interest in the lawman; he had none in me. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” I said.
“I find it … strange … that you haven’t returned any of my phone calls. I’ve left messages with Lindsey each time, but you never call back.”
I felt a wave of relief wash over me that it wasn’t anything more serious. “I didn’t know you called! Lindsey must’ve forgotten to relay the messages. Between cheerleading practice, schoolwork, and now with her grandmother’s predicament, well, she’s got a lot on her plate.”
“Guess, you’re right,” he relented, his smile both boyish and sheepish. “I’ve overreacted ever since Lindsey mentioned you and CJ have been spending more time together.”
“Teenagers.” I laughed, moving in for a long-overdue hug. “You know how they exaggerate.”
“Can you forgive me for acting like an idiot?” Seeing my smile, he bent down and kissed me, making me feel all warm and melty inside.
Suddenly, a loud clanking, banging, and grinding noise emanated from upstairs. We broke apart and raced up the steps to find Melly staring at the kitchen sink, a stricken expression on her face.
Doug identified the problem immediately and pulled the switch for the garbage disposal. Blessed silence prevailed.
Tears swam in Melly’s eyes. “I just ruined one of your good pieces of flatware—along with your garbage disposal. I’m so sorry, dear. I don’t know what’s the matter with me these days.”
If this weren’t disaster enough, the pot containing Melly’s vegetable soup boiled over, sending carrots, peas, beans, and potatoes cascading over the rim, onto the stove top, then to the floor.
Turning off the stove with one hand, I yanked a length of paper towel with the other. My drive-by and impromptu picnic would have to stand in line behind driving to Lowe’s for a new garbage disposal.
CHAPTER 20
THE NEAREST LOWE’S was twenty-odd miles down the highway, near the interstate. Stores, restaurants, a Cineplex, and motels had sprung up around the exit like dandelions after a spring rain. “Build me and they will come” seemed to be the motto. Walmart was open 24/7 and attracted kids even on prom night.
I’d tried to convince Reba Mae to accompany me, but she said no thanks. Unless Lowe’s had a shoe department, she wasn’t interested. Besides, she’d added, now that our stakeout had been canceled, she needed to start memorizing lines for her upcoming stage debut.
I stood in the center of an aisle and pondered my choices of garbage disposals. Horsepower seemed to be a major concern. Warranty another. One-, two-, or three-year? I finally settled for one in the middle of the pack that claimed to be perfect for a small household.
After loading my selection into a buggy—as shopping carts are called in the South—I decided to take a look around the rest of the store. While I wasn’t in the market for new appliances, it was always fun to play “pretend.” I rounded the corner and nearly plowed into Wyatt McBride. Deep in concentration, he stood in front of a long row of refrigerators while other sh
oppers streamed around him.
“I suggest stainless steel.”
His head jerked up and he noticed me for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“For your information, this store happens to be open to the general public—not just befuddled law enforcement.”
He winced. “Is my confusion that obvious?”
“I’ve seen less confusion on faces of toddlers trying to decide between orange and red lollipops.”
“Why stainless?” He gestured to a nearby side-by-side.
I angled my buggy closer. “I watch a lot of HGTV—Property Brothers, Love It or List It, House Hunters. Stainless steel appliances seem to be a hot ticket item for home buyers these days. If you should ever decide to relocate, it’ll increase your resale value.”
“I’m never going to sell this blasted house once it’s fixed up. They’ll have to carry me out feetfirst.”
I clucked my tongue. “Now, now, that’s no way to talk.”
“Here I am, spending all my money on things like refrigerators and ranges when I could be buying a bass boat,” he groused.
“If you had a boat, you’d probably go fishing, right?” When he nodded, I continued, “If you caught fish, you’d need a place to keep them. That’s where a refrigerator comes in handy.”
“Be easier to buy a cooler and a bag of ice at the fillin’ station. That oughta suffice till I could fry ’em up.”
I ignored his twisted male logic. “A range is a must for frying up a whole mess of stripers, crappies, or catfish. No kitchen is complete without a range. Think about property values. Think marketability. While you’re at it, you might want to consider purchasing a dishwasher and microwave.”
His expression turned even glummer. “I could’ve bought a small yacht for all of my money you just spent.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chided. “There isn’t a body of water anywhere near here large enough for a yacht. We’re Brandywine Creek, remember. Nothing bigger than a canoe or a kayak.”
